BONES
by Jo The Librarian
Summary: Post NFA, the Powers That Be allow Angel a reward


19

BONES 

Author: Jo

Feedback : Pretty please, whatever you thought of it. It will feed my muse for the next story – honestly. Send it to None of these characters are mine. If they were, I'd look after them better. No money will ever be made from this fic.

Distribution: The Angel Texts ; Dark Star's Blood Roses Forum; The Angel Elders Mansion. Want it? Really? Gosh. Just tell me where it's going please.

Setting: Post NFA

Rating: PG12

Content: Angel/Buffy

Summary: The Powers that Be allow Angel a reward.

Author's notes

1 This is a story for Angel Elders Mansion to mark the first anniversary of the demise of the series 'Angel'. Something to rip your heart out.

2 Mark of Cain – the mark placed on Cain to identify him after he had murdered his brother Abel

3 Scylla and Charybdis – a sea monster and a whirlpool in Greek mythology, placed on opposite sides of a strait. Steering away from one put sailors in danger from the other

4 Silkie – Magical beings, male or female, from Celtic myth. A silkie normally took the form of a seal. However, they could shed their skin, which usually took on the appearance of a cloak, or hood, and they could then walk on land as a human. Without their skin, they were unable to return to the sea, and were forced to remain on land. Not to be confused with a silkie chicken, which looks as if it has had an extremely enthusiastic cut and blow dry.

BONES 

Roger Wyndham-Price sat in his wing chair, in his study, carefully examining his hand. He'd been looking at it for at least five minutes, and only now was he seeing it at all. Bones. A hand was made of bones. Wrapped around those bones was flesh, and blood. Let's not forget the blood. The blood that ran in his veins was the same as… No.

He started again. Bones. There were 206 of them in the human body, 27 in each hand. Two hands held one quarter of the bones in the body. Or a handful of ash… No.

Blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, and the stupid boy had preferred the company of vampires to the company of those that his father had chosen for him. Soon, he'd be nothing but bones… No.

He continued to stare at his hand, wilfully ignoring the letter from his son's lawyer. The letter that now lay crumpled on the floor. _Crumpled, not torn. He'd meant to tear it into the tiniest smithereens, each piece a nail in his pride, but if he did that, he wouldn't be able to look at it. Again. And crumple it up. Again. _The letter telling him that his ne'er-do-well son would never do well again, because he was dead. The letter that Wyndham-Price _mater_, Lady Bountiful of the county, wouldn't know about until she got back from her charity meeting much later today.

Existence was bones. Bred in the bone. _Bad to the bone_. Bone idle. Bone weary. Bone dry. _Bonehead. Boneless. Bone of contention_. A life was a scaffolding of bones, sometimes bloodied and broken, built piece by painful piece. You put the flesh and blood on the top, and quite often life scraped it off again, but still you were left with that solid foundation of bones. If you were a Wyndham-Price, that is.

If he looked hard enough, he was sure that he could see the Wyndham-Price bones, beneath all that beating blood, bones from his father, and his father's father, and all the many fathers right back to the Conquest. Bones that he had passed to Wesley, only to Wesley, and which were now going to be mouldering in an early grave. _Because of the vampire_. No, he amended himself. Because of them all. Because the Slayer hadn't staked the vampire, and the witch had helped them, and the Watcher had failed in his duty. Because of all this, the line of Wyndham-Prices was as dead as his son. Dead and rotten. Bones.

Willow was back home. Well, not back home in Sunnydale – they'd all made quite sure of that a year ago. Sunnydale was just a crater of bones. Bones and ash. At least, she hoped it was. A lot had happened in a year. She'd travelled, for one thing. She and Kennedy had seen the sights, travelled to places near and far. Oh, not to the sort of places you find on maps – well, not the maps that you can buy at any good newsagents or bookshop – but places, nonetheless.

And now Kennedy was travelling on. It wasn't right. She'd known in her bones that Kennedy was the one with whom she should spend the rest of her life. They could have been happy. Kennedy's view was different, though. Willow watched as her lover-ex-lover thrust the last few items into her backpack, trying not to see the way the girl's soft skin slid over a slayer's muscle and bone. She wondered for a moment if Angel had ever sat and watched his slayer like this. No. No point remembering that. Angel and Buffy were past. Dead and buried, if only metaphorically, although less metaphorically in his case, of course. She'd have to find where Buffy was now, and catch up with all the news, but she was pretty sure that it wouldn't include any BuffyAngelness, just as her own future seemed not to include any WillowKennedyness. It wasn't fair.

Still, thinking like this was displacement activity. Something to stop her mind from processing the fact that Kennedy was leaving her. Willow could prevent that, if she wanted, and she most definitely wanted, but the Coven had taught her how to deal with Bad Willow, when Bad Willow tried to take over the reins. And so she simply sat, watching Kennedy sever the bone-deep tie between them. Later, there would be tears, later there would be recriminations, but not now. Not yet. Just this pain, right down to her bones.

Giles sat in front of the class, cracking his knuckles. It was a habit he'd suddenly acquired, following that dreadful day on 19 May 1998, when his knuckles had been changed forever, at the hands of Buffy's sometime demon lover. Angelus. Now, the bones of his fingers hurt whenever he worked them hard; whenever he tried to play the guitar; whenever it rained; whenever the wind was in the north; whenever there was any damned excuse at all. They hurt today, as if he needed reminding of what had been, and what could never be again. He'd heard what had happened in Los Angeles. All for the best, really. Angel and all the others had gone down fighting, but what they'd done had been enough. And of Angel, of course, not even bones left for her to mourn over.

Still, apart from his knuckles, he was in a good mood today. The Watchers' Council had been recreated, and there were now trainee watchers to be taught. He looked around the assembled faces as they waited for him to speak. They were doing well with the syllabus. He'd covered the basics about Hellmouths, vampires and half a dozen species of the most common and destructive demons. Now for something different. Something they'd had to deal with once, all those years ago, in Sunnydale.

"Today I want to talk to you about methods for reversing the spells cast by a witch. There are two. You must either find her spell book, or failing that, you can decapitate her. Right – the spell book… Jennings! Tell me why finding her spell book might be a way of reversing her spells."

The boy looked flustered, and Giles felt momentarily sorry for him. He thought of Amy, and her mother Catherine. Whilst the teacher portion of his mind waited for Jennings to reply, the Watcher portion wondered whether Catherine was alive, in some undiscovered prison, and where Amy was now. He mentally logged those two questions as something to follow up, perhaps as a training exercise. He thought of Willow, and the fact that she had never needed anything so mundane as a spell book. He was glad he was unlikely to have to reverse any of her magic now that she had learned to control Bad Willow.

"I'm still waiting, Jennings…"

Buffy sat at a small table outside a coffee shop, feeling the early morning sunshine on her skin. She wished she could say that she was enjoying that simple pleasure. She wished she could say that she might enjoy anything, ever again.

She had a couple of hours to spare before she needed to start giving classes. Giles had persuaded her to come and work for the Watchers' Council – for a while, anyway. She'd refused all their offers of accommodation, and had found herself a small but chic apartment. It would do until she moved on.

So, she sat here, watching the world go by, trying not to think about the fact that the love of her life was dead. Dead defending the world from the Apocalypse, which was good. But dead, nonetheless, which was a wound on her psyche that she didn't think would ever heal.

She'd felt his death. She hadn't thought that they were still so closely tied, but she had known when he went. It was the slicing pain of cold steel, shearing part of her away. And then he'd been gone. There was now an empty place that she knew would never be filled. She remembered her time in Heaven, and hoped that he was there. Hoped beyond hope that he had done enough to earn the forgiveness that he'd craved. She finished her coffee, not having tasted a single mouthful, and went back to watching the world go by, wishing that any of them might turn to look at her, and be Angel.

Wherever he was, he was alone. There was light, so he could see, although there was no actual source of that light, and whatever it showed him was, in any event, no help in working out where he was. Everything was grey. The ground he stood on – he called it ground for no other reason than that he stood on it – was grey, like congealed mist. The sky was grey – if it was sky at all, because he couldn't differentiate it from the ground, except that it was all around, and he wasn't standing on it.

There was nothing else. There was no sound; there was nothing to see; there was no texture, nothing to feel. He was pretty sure that there wasn't any air here, and he certainly didn't need it, because he wasn't breathing. There was only Nothingness, as solid and weighty as the stuff of nightmares. He started to walk. He'd walked a very long way before he accepted that everywhere was the same. Or perhaps everywhere was exactly the same because he hadn't really moved at all. Maybe he'd just gone around in circles. How could he ever know?

And then there was a dark spot in the distance, whatever distance meant here. Perhaps not so very distant, because the spot was moving and very quickly resolved into a larger shape, and then a man-shape. And then it was Doyle, looking exactly as he'd looked on the night Angel had last seen him. At the start of that night, at least.

"Hello, big guy. Howya doin'? Oh, I guess that was a dumb question. You gotta be dead to be here."

His smile was as big and Irish as ever, and he and Angel embraced like the two long-parted friends they were. Angel searched his friend's face.

"Doyle. Have you been here, ever since…?"

He couldn't say the words 'since you died', but he thought of what the Oracles had given him to understand. They had made him believe that Doyle had atoned. Had been forgiven. He wished he'd been more…assertive… with the Oracles, but it was too late now.

Doyle grinned boyishly back at him.

"Nah. Just here to see you. I can't stay. I just came to tell you what might be in your future. You really pissed off one of the Powers, you know. They don't want anything to do with you. Don't want you being a spanner in their works. Guess they don't trust you dead any more than they did alive."

"Doyle…"

The smaller man pressed his finger against Angel's lips. His expression carried a hint of sadness.

"No. Don't say anything. I can't stay, so there's no time to waste."

The sadness seemed to deepen.

"The Dark Powers don't want you, so they've taken their claws out of you. Washed their…hands…of you. Freed you, so that you can be forgiven. The other Powers, well, they've decided to offer you a choice."

Angel tried to speak again, but Doyle held up his hand.

"There's no time, boyo. I can feel them calling me back. You gotta let me finish. You can go to Heaven, wait for Buffy, have your promised eternity together, although not a very fleshy one, of course. Or, you can have the Shanshu, go back to her as a human, and what you make of it then is up to you – there can be no guarantees. You'd be starting with a clean slate, and which way the balance tips at the end depends on what you do with it. The afterlife you earn would be your responsibility – both of you.

"Nothing can take away your memories, if you choose humanity, but you'd know you've been forgiven. The past's gone. The future is what you make it. So, it's your choice. Heaven now, or take your chances on Earth."

He paused briefly, too briefly for Angel to fill the gap with the questions burgeoning inside him.

"She might not want you, you know? And do you think you can manage a whole lifetime without screwing it up again?"

Angel closed his eyes, overwhelmed for the moment by the choice in front of him. Could he live with his memories? A small voice inside him whispered 'yes, if she's with us'. Could he manage a whole lifetime as just a human, without creating havoc all around him, as he always had so far? As he had in both his human and vampire existences? 'Yes, yes, of course we can, with her to help us,' said that tiny inner voice. Would she still want him? 'Of course she will; we'll make sure she will,' that little voice positively panted. Something must have shown on his face.

"Remember, Angel, no mortal sins this time round. You won't get this chance again…"

He felt the soft touch of lips against his. He opened his eyes, and Doyle was gone. Whispering a soft prayer of thanks, he made his choice. There could only ever be one.

Roger Wyndham-Price looked into his wife's eyes. For a moment, he had thought that she was going to cry, but then centuries of breeding had asserted themselves, and her face had shut down into a blank mask. He wondered if she would ever again show him any other face. She'd never approved of the way he'd raised his son, but he'd been master in his own house, and he had prevailed.

Now, that son was cold in a coffin, and on his way back home, where he would lie with his forebears, dust and ashes before his time. Just mouldering bones. He watched as his wife turned on her heel and walked out of the room, the crumpled paper, which had been smoothed into the semblance of a letter once more, clutched tightly in her hand.

Every single one of them was to blame; was responsible for the ending of his line, a heritage older than even the vampire's, and immeasurably prouder. He tasted bile in his mouth as he thought that the Wyndham-Prices would now end with him. Only one thing could possibly take away that bitter taste of failure. He started making plans. He'd been replaced as head of the Council, but he still had records, and he still had friends in the fold. Within days, he knew what he needed to know.

Willow had used her magic and now she wanted to use it again. The sheer need ate away at her, the need to put things right, make things as they should be. WillowKennedy. BuffyAngel. If she couldn't help herself, she could help her friend. It had taken her a few days to weaken enough, but now she had used the magic to learn where she could contact Buffy, to see the terrible events in Los Angeles. She could do something about it, she knew she could. But, should she? Should she bring him back? Was that Bad Willow, the Willow that was so impulsive in the use of her magic? Reckless. Or was it just using her gift to make things right?

She stared across at the empty seat on the sofa that should have held Kennedy, and wondered. What to do?

Giles watched as Buffy put the slayers through their Tai Chi exercises. It was one of the more useful things that she'd learned from Angel, and he was almost certain that these exercises reminded her of some of the other, more destructive things that she'd also learned from the vampire. Spiritual annihilation, for a start. Of how she'd needed to use these exercise to help rebalance herself in the aftermath of him.

He was gone now. Given time, Giles was sure that she would recover. She hadn't wanted to come here, but it would be a godsend for her at the last. She would find a haven here, where she could work through her loss, and then see the opportunities that were in front of her. Giles would make sure of that.

Bringing these young ones on, teaching them things that would help to keep them safe, this would give her strength and purpose. It was all for the best.

Buffy was going through the motions, as she went through the motions each and every morning. The rhythmic movements, the stretch and bend and hold position, helped her centre herself, ground herself, steel herself for the coming day. Each time she carried out the forms, she remembered when he had taught them to her, imagined that even now, she could feel his hands on her, skin on skin, the cool furnace of his touch forging the iron chains of soul addiction. No one else had ever understood except, perhaps, Spike. She hadn't lied when she had said that Spike was in her heart. He was. Angel had never been in her heart. Angel was her heart. It had taken all these years, and endless nights of reflection on that stupid cookie dough speech, for her to realise that.

Now, her heart was gone, replaced by something hard and sharp and broken, something that sliced slivers from her soul, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day.

She walked around the girls, as they practiced the forms that she had shown them, moving an elbow here, tilting a head there, all her actions practiced but mechanical, her mind half way around the world, wishing that she had been there with him. And then the ever-present anguish, that knifebright sharpness paring her soul away, was simply gone. The suddenness of it took her breath away, and she froze for a moment, interrupting the rhythm of the slayer whose form she had been correcting.

Stillness and silence enveloped the room for an instant, before she collected herself enough to carry on. When the class was over, she went out to the furthest part of the grounds, curling under a towering oak in new leaf, the deep ridges of the bark digging into her thin back. Carefully, she felt inside herself for this new feeling – no less one of loss, but now no worse than it had been for all those years that she had been separated from him – and tried to understand what this change meant. She wondered if perhaps he had found peace and forgiveness. If that were so, she would be glad of it.

He found himself standing in a dark alley. He recognised it at once. It was the alley behind the Hyperion. Behind what was left of the Hyperion. As he came to this new awareness, he staggered, as if he'd had a rush of blood to the head. It took several long moments before he realised that he had, indeed, had a rush of blood to the head, and it wasn't stopping. He was human.

Human, as the Powers had once promised. It seemed as if the Dark Powers had, as he'd been told, let him go. He leaned against the wall, savouring the solidity of it, allowing it to hold him up while he got his… sea legs?… mortal legs?… under control. After a few minutes, when everything around him had stopped spinning, he put his hand to the brickwork in front of him, and gripped it hard. It didn't crumble or break. Only human strength, then. Well, what had he expected? Superhuman strength? He felt the sear of pain in his fingers, and examined them with interest as the blood seeped from scratches left by the roughness of the bricks. No trace of vampire healing, either. He felt a little disconcerted. He'd been here before, human and powerless, unable to help Buffy. Still, the thought lightened when he remembered that there were many other slayers now. Buffy could be just a normal girl. Couldn't she?

No, he decided. Buffy could never be just normal. Well, they'd work it out. Besides, he remembered people like Wes and Gunn, people with only human strength, and they'd fought alongside him. _Died alongside him._

He did a quick internal inventory. Heartbeat: check. Breathing: check. Hunger: check. Blood lust: none. Superhuman senses: none. Angelus. Gone. He was surprised to find that, much as humanity had been his lodestar, there were some things in that list that he would miss. Never Angelus, though. Never. But some of the things the demon had brought? Yes. He would miss those. He'd realised long ago that the promised humanity had only ever been truly desirable because it would get rid of the demon – he'd hoped; because it was a visible sign of forgiveness, a sort of reversal of the Mark of Cain, if you will; and because it would make a life with Buffy possible, if she would have him.

He shoved down the quick, ungrateful thought that now he was… lessened. This was something that he had yearned for. It wasn't something less. Besides, even if it was, it was a good thing. It marked his atonement, showed the world that he was no longer a monster. And it meant he could have a lifetime with his soul mate. If she wanted it. He decided that this must be the cause of his unease. It wasn't because he was lessened.

That brought him to his second inventory. The external one, resulting in a list of his slender resources. Clothes: check. Identity: none. Credit cards: none. Cash: none. A few moments later, he added another item to the list. Weapons: none.

There were two men at each end of the alley. Well, he thought they were men – they were too far away, in the dark, and his meagre human senses couldn't properly distinguish, yet. He wasn't certain until he saw the glint of a knife in the hand of one. Vampires and other assorted demons had enough weaponry of their own. They didn't need to bother with knives.

"Hand over your wallet and cards, and you won't get hurt."

Just muggers. But four of them? He turned out his pockets, making his movements slow and clear, so that they could see he had nothing. It wasn't what they wanted to see.

When he'd finished, he was the last man standing, but he was cut and bruised, and pretty sure that at least one rib was cracked. He wondered if he'd broken his hand, he'd hit the first one so hard. From old habit, and new necessity, he searched the unconscious youths, and took what little money they had. As he did so, he thought he heard an echo of a voice in his head. No mortal sins. This life will be what you make it. Not a good start, but he silently promised to do better in future.

Then, he set about finding Buffy. He could feel her, still, as he had felt her since taking her as the vampire's mate. Whether it was blood to blood, or soul to soul, he didn't know. He just knew which direction meant her, and followed the siren call. It took him two weeks to get there.

He'd watched her for a week, and she never knew he was there, proving that at least he'd lost none of his old stalking skills. It had all seemed so clear, in that grey, tenebrous Nowhere. Humanity was the path to everything he held dear, and, difficult as it was, he would walk it. Now, though, things seemed harder, sharper. He might be human, but who was he? What did he have to offer this woman, a woman whom he'd only really known as a girl? Hubris. Always with him, it was hubris. Still, there was no point in continuing to circle around the Charybdis of his thoughts. The knuckle-bones were cast, the wish-bone broken, and he'd made his choice. Time to face Scylla.

He watched her leave the coffee shop, as she did every morning, and make her way to the Council's new headquarters. He'd wondered whether it would be best to approach her in private or…not. He'd decided not, thinking it better for her. Today, he would follow her all the way.

Getting into the walled compound was really no problem, for an athletic human. As he made his way back towards the main drive, he saw her approaching, the sun glinting on her hair in a bright nimbus, just as he had dreamed of so often in the past. He felt his pulse speed up at the sight of her, as it always did, and took a deep, deep breath to steady himself for what he was about to do.

As she reached the door of the main building, she had only to turn to see him, making his way through the clipped and ordered shrubberies, but she didn't. Instead, she stopped just short of the door to the main building, smiling at someone he could not yet see. As he changed his angle of approach, he saw that it was Giles. He felt an internal sigh. Oh, well, at least he would get it all over with at once. His approach was unnoticed by either, until he spoke.

"Buffy."

She had her back to him, but he could see her stiffen. He could no longer scent her reaction to him, but he had experience enough to know that it would be the scent of shock. Giles looked up, and his eyes hardened for a moment before confusion took over. It wasn't Giles that he was interested in, though.

Slowly, she turned, as if she were afraid to see what might be behind her. She said the word before she could possibly have seen him.

"Angel?"

He waited until he could see her face, bewilderment and disbelief written all over her lovely features.

"No. Not any more."

It took a moment for that to sink in. Then she closed the body length that he had left between them, reaching out to touch his cheek. Warmth to warmth.

"How…how long?"

He almost didn't hear her, his very being rapt in her touch, as if his skin were absorbing her, atom by atom. He almost moaned when she withdrew her fingers. Her voice was sharper.

"How long?"

He knew what she meant.

"They sent me back about three weeks ago."

"And you couldn't let me know?"

He could see by her eyes that she had known. Had known something, at least. He floundered a little though, feeling like a callow youth, as if he hadn't had two and a half centuries of experience at all.

"I…I wasn't…wasn't sure what you might…whether you would want…"

He trailed off, suddenly unable to finish, suddenly terrified that she might indeed not want… Not want him at least. That tiny voice that had prodded him to this was unhelpfully silent, and other thoughts flowed in to fill the void. He'd heard tales of the silkie in his childhood. Like the silkie, he had turned his back on an ocean of heaven, and had settled for a lesser, mortal, guise in which to walk ashore. Like the silkie, he had shed his skin to live as a human, and he had done it only for her. Unlike the silkie, though, she was that other skin, and he thought that only with her would he ever be able to find his way back to paradise. Without her, his immortal skin might be gone forever; he would be no one, lost and alone in an alien world.

The hiatus between them stretched on: a true pregnant pause. It was a time of utter silence and stillness in which the hopes, dreams and possibilities of lifetimes shuffled themselves around, presenting themselves to be realised or refused. And then she hit him. It was, truly, a bolt from the blue – he had expected recriminations, tears or maybe even a hug, but not this – and he staggered under the blow. He knew she'd pulled her punch, though – if she hadn't, he would have been flat on his back with a broken cheek.

And then she was simply striking out at him as any woman, hurt beyond endurance, strikes out at her man. He fended off the worst of her blows, but made no move to stop her. Neither did Giles, although the Watcher did prevent any of the rapidly growing crowd from interfering.

There were words wrapped up in her blows, but she was choking back the tears, too – tears of sorrow, of anger, of grief and of sudden unexpected relief – and he could make no sense of what she said. It didn't matter. There would be time enough for all that. She could rail at him to her heart's content, if only she still loved him.

At last her blows became weaker, perfunctory, and he allowed himself to give in to the urge to hold her to him, let her cry her emotions out on his breast, to comfort and love her. He stopped defending himself and opened his arms to her. She fell towards him with a sob, and he folded her into himself, one hand cradling her head, the other wrapped firmly around her, pressing her into his new-found heart. He rested his cheek on the crown of her head, and felt his own tears run down into her hair, as he finally understood that the future would be theirs.

Her voice was muffled as she spoke into his coat.

"You were dead. You were dead and you left me all alone."

His lips moved against her hair, and he tasted the tang of herbs from her shampoo.

"I know. But I came back for you. Only for you. Always for you."

And then her lips were on his, and the taste of salt, as they kissed as if they were starving for each other, as if this kiss could make up for all the years in between. He thought that perhaps it could.

They broke apart simply because they were both human, and they both needed to breathe, but before they did so, there was a long moment when both thought they would simply be content to drown in each other; that this act of union was sufficient in itself, and that death now would be no sacrifice. Then the dreams and hopes and possibilities kicked against the walls of their womb, and ended that kiss of life and death and promises.

Her face was radiant, and he wondered whether his might be, too.

"Giles."

Her smile was dazzling, and infectious. The gathering crowd of young men and women seemed to waken from the trance of immobility that had held them and there were nudges, glances and grins. He wondered if any one of them actually understood anything of the situation.

"Giles," she repeated, "I'm taking the day off. Do Not Disturb. Got it?"

He felt, rather than saw, her small shiver of uncertainty.

"It is… You are, you know… safe?"

"Courtesy of the Powers That Be, I'm superglued. Just a normal human, nothing else."

Nothing else at all. It hurt, a little. That was his ever-damning hubris talking. Then it was his turn to shiver, but in anticipation, as she stroked his cheek gently.

"Never normal. Whoever you are, you'll always be special. Giles?"

The Watcher nodded abruptly.

"I'll talk to you both tomorrow. I want to know exactly what happened."

At Buffy's old-fashioned look, he gave his own little smile.

"You know what I mean."

He turned and ushered the potential slayers and watchers-to-be into their classes, lingering only to watch the pair walk back down the drive, oblivious to the rest of the world. He offered up a silent prayer for them, then followed his charges in through the door, and out of the sunlight.

He registered nothing of the world around him as they walked. He was simply lost in his lover's eyes. She could have led him anywhere, but she took him to her apartment. Only once they were secure in its walls did he let go of her hand, and then only to hold her close once more. She started to speak, but he put his finger to her lips. An image of Doyle came to his mind as he did so, and he offered up a silent vow of thanks to his friend, and to those who had sent him. _For this moment, for this gift beyond price, I will be as you wish, do what you wish, forever. I promise._

Once again, she started to speak, but he quieted her with a kiss. When they finally broke apart, he whispered, "There is no need for words, for explanations. We have all the time in the world, my love. Let's just wipe out the memory of everything that's come between us. Everything."

She nodded, and the dam of years burst, pain and loss and despair and betrayal draining away as if they had never existed. In one swift movement, he lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Before she leaned in to kiss him again, she pulled her sweater over her head, leaving her hair sweetly dishevelled as she did so. He didn't even see. Blind to everything else, and obedient to her instructions, he carried her through to the bedroom, and proceeded to show her what he didn't yet have the words to express.

When Buffy woke, it was first light, still the wee small hours of a glorious June morning. They hadn't taken the time to close the curtains, and those very first rays of the sun were painting the bed with golden light. A surge of panic rose within her, fear for the man behind her, holding her tight, as if he would never let her go, never let anything harm her ever again. The man. As soon as it had come, the fear was gone. He was a man, and the sunlight could no longer hurt him. The miracle had been granted. She remembered something about June brides, and wondered if things could be arranged in time. A June bride. That was something she had never thought to be, particularly to the sleeping lover behind her.

She tried to settle again, quietly, so as not to disturb him. She had stirred a little within his grasp, though, and that little had been enough to awaken him. His fingers started questing across the expanses of her skin, leaving trails of desire behind them. She could feel, oh-so-close as she was, the very physical evidence of his own burgeoning need, and smiled to herself. It seemed that the Powers might have left her something of the vampire stamina. She let her own fingers do a little questing, and felt as much as heard his sharp intake of breath. It was a long time before they fell back into a sated sleep.

Roger Wyndham Price took up station opposite the Council's new Headquarters an hour or so after dawn. He was persona non grata there, but that couldn't be allowed to stop him. There was a slight chill to the early June morning, and he was grateful for the full-length coat that he was wearing. As he adjusted his position a little to relieve muscles unaccustomed to long periods of stillness, something beneath his coat dug into him a little. He was grateful for that, too.

He'd been here, watching the front gate, every morning for over a week, watching for as long as possible before he had to move on. He had seen that turncoat, Rupert Giles, and he had seen the renegade Slayer, Buffy Summers. The vampire was dead, more was the pity, ash blowing in the wind. The other two would soon join him.

As he waited, he saw something that seemed like a gift from the gods. The witch was here. She looked dishevelled and distracted. Surely he could find an opportunity… This was too great a chance to pass over. His plans underwent a radical revision, as he saw how much harm he could bring to the ones who had brought harm to him. He watched what Willow did next, and thanked whatever Power had given him this chance.

Willow stepped down from the morning train and walked the short distance to the Council Headquarters. It was still early, and there were very few people about. That suited her. She wanted to find a position where she could see Buffy, and talk to her, before Giles spotted her. She wanted to know whether Buffy wanted Angel back. She was sure she could do that, and she was sure that she could find a way to bring him back with his soul unencumbered by the happiness clause.

She had discovered where Buffy lived, and had thought to go there, to speak to her in private, but when she had done the casting last night, Buffy had not been alone. Willow had been unable to recognise the signature of the person Buffy was with – although it was a he, and there was something elusively familiar. She'd wondered briefly whether Buffy had truly moved on, although she couldn't find it in herself to believe that. Still, her broken psyche was still splinted and bandaged from Kennedy's ill usage of her, and Willow no longer trusted her instincts.

The milkman stopped by the gate and handed a pint of milk to the porter before continuing up the drive to make the rest of his delivery. Taking advantage of that, Willow wrapped herself in a glamour of 'don't see me', and slipped, unnoticed, through the gate.

Roger Wyndham-Price watched the witch fade in and out of focus. He knew she was using a glamour, and he knew how to deal with that. He turned his head to look to one side of her, and simply followed the movement in his peripheral vision. As persona non grata, he wouldn't be allowed through the gate, although the porter would be apologetic in the extreme, but there were other ways. This building may be newly designated as the Council Headquarters, but it had belonged to the Council for a long time. He was familiar with it. He knew where there were ways of getting in.

Willow found a comfortable seat on the turf at the foot of a spreading cherry tree. The blossom was almost gone, now, leaving only a few fading petals to fall, but there were flowering rhododendrons all around in a confection of ice cream colours. She preferred not to maintain the glamour, in case there were those here who could recognise when magic was being used. From beneath this tree, though, she could see people who might come up and down the drive, but the rhododendrons hid her from casual glances. This spot was ideal. She'd been there for an hour or more, and was only now seeing the first of the day's arrivals, when she became aware of someone approaching from behind. She hurriedly opened the book she had with her, trying to look as if she had every right to be there. Just in case, though, she sorted through her possible options and chose a couple of spells that might help.

There was the faintest sound of a sigh and then a grotesque pain in her chest. She gaped in shock at the crossbow bolt that protruded from her breast, a tiny trickle of blood belying the internal torrent that she could feel from where the bolt had grazed her heart. There was no doubt; the wound was mortal. Summoning all her strength, she started an incantation as she turned, one that would send her attacker to a fitting hell, but she didn't have the chance to finish. As she turned, with blackness bleeding into the edges of her sight, she saw something hard and bright descend swiftly towards her. Then she knew no more.

He woke to find Buffy propped up on one elbow, watching him. Her face was a picture of perfect happiness, and he knew that it mirrored his, just as his face was a reflection of what he could feel in his heart. He hadn't believed that he could ever be this happy. Even the ever-present memories seemed to have been driven away. He reached out to stroke her arm.

"Got any plans for today?"

He was hoping that she would say no, because he would happily stay here, in this bed, for the next week, just making up for lost and wasted time.

"Lots. How about getting you a name and getting married?"

"Why, Miss Summers; are you proposing to a homeless nameless stranger off the street?"

She leaned forward and nipped his nose.

"If I don't, he might never pluck up the courage, so yes. Marry me, Angel? Or whoever you are…"

He hugged her close.

"Yes, ma'am."

"That's settled then. A shower and coffee first…"

He tried to grab hold of her, but she laughingly evaded him. He wasn't sorry. A shower and coffee actually sounded fine by him. Once they were both clean and caffeinated, he had every intention of making her need a shower all over again. He got up and met her, as she rounded the bed heading for the bathroom.

"What about Giles?"

"We'll go and see him, and I'm sure that, if you like, there'll be lots for you to do at the Council, until we decide what it is that we want. You can teach the Tai Chi for a while; you've always been better at it than me."

Her implication was that the Council might not see them for dust once they'd had chance to think things through as a couple. That, too, suited him fine. And he would learn to bear the weakness of being human all the better away from the prying curiosity of Watchers and Councils and their ilk. He turned towards the bathroom, holding his hand out behind him.

"Shower it is, then."

He felt her take his hand, and then there was a tiny implosion of air behind him. For a moment it felt as if the world had tilted, a moment when sensation disappeared, and then he felt her fingers again, sharp against his.

Willow wasn't found until lunchtime, when some of the younger pupils, chasing each other through the shrubbery in a release of pent-up energy, almost literally fell over her body and ran screaming to the gate porter. As the senior person on site, Giles was called. There was no question, of course, of summoning the police.

Nor was there any question of summoning medical assistance. If the bolt through her heart hadn't killed her, the six feet of space between her head and her stiffening body most certainly had. Responsible adults were found to take care of the children, and a Council clean-up team called. The older Slayers were combing the grounds, searching for intruders, but the murderer seemed long gone. Giles would make sure that the clean-up team used all resources to identify the killer if it were humanly possible. Or even inhumanly.

The Watcher stood calmly at the scene, doing all those things that needed to be done, but he knew that his calmness was largely due to shock. True, he had experience now of remaining outwardly unruffled whilst friends and lovers died, but he would mourn this loss more than most. He had loved Willow almost as a father; almost as much as he loved Buffy, and he would see her avenged on whoever had done this.

It was the thought of Buffy that cracked the calm façade. Buffy and Angel, alone together. Angel, who had been re-ensouled by Willow more than once. Angel mysteriously back from the dead, and Giles didn't know who had been responsible for that…

Decapitation of a witch reverses her spells… That slippery soul…

He set off running. A couple of Slayers saw, and followed, recognising the signs of trouble. As his feet pounded the pavement, as he dodged pedestrians, threw himself in front of cars to cross roads the faster, he could only think of Buffy, and pray that she wasn't even now facing a soulless version of Angel. He was halfway to Buffy's apartment before he realised the impossibility of his fears. Angel was human, and he'd said it was courtesy of the Powers that Be. Buffy was surely in no danger from him. As he slowed down, chastising himself for an old fool, another truth hit him: a truth that was even worse. He took to his heels again, terror lending him speed, the two pursuing Slayers hard pressed to keep pace with him as he sped along the streets towards the darkest nightmare. He had no time now to wonder why the slayers seemed below par. It would be hours before he had mental space to understand its significance, and days before the full effects were apparent.

When he arrived at the front door, another resident was just leaving. Miss Allen recognised the gasping, tousled man as a visitor to Miss Summers and politely held the door for him. He took the stairs three at a time, arriving at Buffy's own door winded and unable to speak. The door was locked. Above his sobs for breath, he thought he heard a tiny noise from inside, and gestured to one of the Slayers to break the lock. He wouldn't let either of them go in first, though.

There was no sign of anyone. There were no smells of breakfast, no radio, no human noises at all. He thought that he had been mistaken, that the apartment was empty, and then the noise he had heard from outside came again, thin and high pitched. He found them in the bedroom, initially hidden from him by the mound of rumpled bedding. They must have been here, like this, for hours. As he stood, transfixed, Giles heard the two young Slayers come up behind him, heard their sharp intake of breath, and knew that none of them would ever be free of this memory, so long as they all should live.

Angel knelt naked on the floor by the side of the woman who had always been his salvation. He was holding her hand, his fingers clenched around hers so tightly that in other circumstances it must have hurt her. He seemed completely unaware that there were others in the room. As Giles took in the appalling scene, the redeemed vampire started keening again, the sound of an animal in mortal pain.

Buffy, his golden Slayer, the daughter Giles had never had, lay on the floor; the Slayer whom Willow had raised from the dead. Three years out of the grave had left a few locks of faded golden hair, and some scraps of tissue. Otherwise, there was nothing left of her but bones.

The End

17 May 2005


End file.
